


Bon Iver-y little group from the South

by kitbuckle



Series: In which Stiles finds other cool bands [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fanfiction of Fanfiction, M/M, Multi, PCtS B-Side, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 01:30:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7870297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitbuckle/pseuds/kitbuckle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stiles,” Lydia says. She settles next to him and presents her phone, which is open to Instagram. “Listen,” she says (commands), and plays a video in her feed.</p>
<p>The voice is high and raspy, in a good way, accompanied by acoustic guitar. The sound is a cross between Bon Iver and The Civil Wars—acoustic, haunting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bon Iver-y little group from the South

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Play Crack the Sky](https://archiveofourown.org/works/989786) by [WeAreTheCyclones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeAreTheCyclones/pseuds/WeAreTheCyclones). 



> Work two of three B-sides I wrote for WeAreTheCyclones' legendary fic, "Play Crack the Sky." I recommend reading that work first, to get the full experience.

They’re a few weeks into the Annuals tour, and Stiles is in the front lounge nodding off. Derek has a finger marking his place in the book he was reading, but he’s soft in sleep against Stiles’ chest. They’re on a long, flat road in the Midwest, and the gray day blurs by through the windows. Stiles can see one of Scott’s feet hanging out of his bunk. It swings like a metronome with the subtle movement of the bus. The fluttery thing that makes Stiles want to vomit before a big show settles into place, peaceful. Stiles closes his eyes, and a familiar hand slaps him on the side of his head.

“Stiles,” Lydia says.

“Nngheack,” says Stiles.

Unperturbed, she settles next to him and presents her phone, which is open to Instagram. “Listen,” she says (commands), and plays a video in her feed.

The voice is high and raspy, in a good way, accompanied by acoustic guitar. The sound is a cross between Bon Iver and The Civil Wars—acoustic, haunting.

“ _Do the voices in my head make me a monster? You don’t know, don’t know what they tell me to do for you, lover._ ”

The video is blurry and wobbly, but the lyrics come out clear. Two figures sit on a small stage—it’s a café, probably?—picking out a two-part melody that Stiles can’t even begin to tease apart. Stiles doesn’t know the Instagram user who posted the video, but the caption says, _Caught an impromptu River/Valley show at my go-to study joint! Wish they’d put an album out already…_ The location feature places the gig in Charleston, South Carolina.

Lydia immediately switches to her YouTube app, where there’s a video already pulled up of the same two figures, a woman and a man. “This is someone who taped half of their set last spring,” Lydia says. They lie there and listen, the lounge quiet and a little dark from the cloudy day. Stiles feels Derek wake up halfway through the video. Derek covers the hand Stiles has on Derek’s stomach and strokes it softly in time to the music. Their cover of “We Found Love” takes Stiles’ goddamn breath away.

“They have fans without putting out an album,” Lydia says. Her voice is grave, wondering, slightly suspicious. “I checked them out; they have two EPs and a dozen songs on Bandcamp. That’s it.”

Stiles frowns. “Why aren’t they signed? They should be signed.” His tone matches hers. “Seriously, Lyds, they _should be signed_.”

Derek grips Lydia’s wrist as if to steady the phone, as if it will tell him the answers. “What the hell,” he says.

She presses her knuckles to her mouth. “I don’t know, boys, I really don’t know.”

 

“They’ve definitely been approached before,” Kira says. “By at least three different labels. My mom has sent them a gift basket at Christmas for the past two years.” She exhales noisily, and Stiles can picture her clearly gathering her hair behind her head, as if to put it up in a ponytail, and holding it there. She does that when she feels overwhelmed.

They’re all crowded around Lydia’s phone—her, Stiles, Derek, Scott, Allison, even Boyd—frowning at it speculatively.

“What’s the issue?” Allison asks.

“They refuse,” Kira says. She sounds bewildered. “River/Valley has refused to sign with every single label that’s approached them. They take every meeting, as far as I can tell, and they turn down the offer every time.”

Scott whistles.

“My thoughts exactly,” Kira says. “They’re an interesting case. They _want_ to get signed, as far as I can tell, but not desperately enough to sign with an established label or pull a Macklemore.”

“Do you know why they keep refusing?” Boyd asks. River/Valley has quickly become the hot gossip topic of the tour, and he’s texting the Royales van (a.k.a. Erica) everything Kira says.

“They usually go with ‘I don’t think we’re a good fit’,” Kira says. “In this case, I think they really mean it.” Her voice thrums with something new, something that makes the hair stand up on Stiles’ arms.

“What’s up, Kira?” he asks.

“I want them,” she says immediately. “Not to show up my mom or anything—though that’s a nice perk—but this is why I started this business. _Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free_ , you know? I think we can make these guys feel comfortable, since money doesn’t seem to be the issue. That’s what we’re all about—making good music and letting the artists create their own image. Giving them the space they need to be creative and productive.” She pauses for a breath, and then another. No one speaks. Stiles feels like he has a balloon stuck in his chest.“Hello?”

“Did you just quote Emma Lazarus?” Derek asks. Stiles can hear the delight in his voice. Scott’s biting his lips together to hold back a grin or an ecstatic squeal, Stiles can’t tell which.

“Um, yes?”

Lydia actually _coos_.

“Shut up,” Kira says, a little embarrassed and a lot fond.

“Never,” Stiles says immediately. He leans into Derek, who wraps an arm around his waist. He fucking _loves_ his friends. “Can you set up a meeting?”

“Yeah, I know a guy,” Kira says, which is what she always says when they ask her to draw on her extensive connections. “But we need to think carefully about who we send.”

“Stiles,” Scott says. “That’s kind of his thing—he approached Royales, Isaac, Shack Pack…”

“Everybody this label has ever signed,” Kira says ruefully. “Yeah, my thoughts exactly. But, no offense Stiles, I think these guys require a touch that is simultaneously gentle and professional, but not _too_ professional. I think they’d be more likely to trust fellow musicians than people they’d see as the corporate types.”

“So, not me, is what you’re saying,” says Allison. She nods. “I agree.”

“Not me either,” Kira says. “And again, no offense boys, but the next best person is—”

“Me,” Lydia says. “Obviously. Good. How soon can we meet them?”

“It looks like you’ll be in Atlanta at the same time they will,” Kira says. “We’ll let them pick the spot, make them feel like they’re on home turf.”

 

Atlanta is a hotel stop, so Stiles uses the steady wifi connection to go on a research binge. According to their website, River/Valley is performing at county fairs and festivals from Louisiana to Appalachia until October, and then will make “the coffee shop circuit” November though April. They refer to themselves as “River” and “Valley” throughout, and their only pictures are mood-setters in dim light—River’s profile as she looks out a window into the rain, Valley’s downturned face as he tunes his guitar. Stiles can’t find their real names anywhere, and what’s weirder, their fans are really into it. There are several fansites that come up as the second, third, and fourth Google results. None of them speculate about identities, but all of them have at least an entire webpage devoted to speculating if the duo is dating or not. Stiles can tell by looking at them that they’re older than anyone Vulpine Lupine has signed so far.

“Stiles.” Warm hands slide onto Stiles’ shoulders. The thumbs dig into the tense muscles at the base of Stiles’ neck. Stiles has to fight to keep his eyes from closing.

“This is gonna be harder than anyone else we’ve found.”

The bed dips as Derek climbs on behind Stiles. “Harder than Isaac?”

“Isaac’s family,” Stiles says. “These guys are strangers. How do I convince strangers that signing with a tiny San-Francisco-based label is the best thing for them? _Southern_ strangers, at that.”

“They could just tour in the South because that’s where they’re most popular,” Derek says. His hands move down to just under Stiles’ shoulder blades, hitting muscle clusters that make Stiles arch his back like a cat.

“They don’t _need_ us,” Stiles says, even as he’s gasping through his nose at Derek’s touch. “They could have any label they want, what could Lyds and I possibly bring to the table? Fuck, what if VL is the right place for them, and I just don’t sell it right, and they miss out and we miss out and everything gets fucked—”

Derek closes the laptop and briskly sets it on the floor. The next thing Stiles knows, Derek’s rolling them until Stiles is on his stomach on the bed with Derek straddling his ass. Before Stiles can speak, Derek leans his weight into the heels of his hands on either side of Stiles’ spine. It presses a groan out of Stiles that he can’t control. Derek does the same all the way down Stiles’ spine, then moves off Stiles’ ass so he can dig into the muscles that connect Stiles’ glutes to his back. Stiles didn’t even know he had those muscles. At the noise Stiles makes, Derek asks, “Do you wanna stop?”

Stiles says, “No,” and he means it, but even he thinks he sounds like he’s dying. Derek goes back to it. He milks a groan out of Stiles with every sweep. Stiles has to work hard not to writhe under Derek, and the effort leaves him panting. His toes curl so hard at the last stroke, he thinks his feet will cramp. And through it all, Derek keeps him pinned with his weight on Stiles’ thighs and his hands pushing the aches out of Stiles’ body.

Then Stiles remembers River/Valley. He remembers the show they’re playing that night. He remembers that despite Atlanta being a relatively gay-friendly city, they’d still received letters from homophobic assholes. He remembers that Kira said, “I want them.” He remembers she’s never said that before.

Stiles gropes behind him, digs his fingers into Derek’s knee. His body is loose and tired, but his brain feels like it’s full of bees, and they’re starting to infiltrate his chest. “Derek.”

Derek unfolds himself until he’s lying over Stiles, threading his fingers between Stiles’, mouthing at Stiles’ neck. “What do you need, baby.”

Stiles groans, sinks their joined fingers into Derek’s hair. “I need you,” Stiles says. “I need you inside me.”

Derek undresses them both quickly and gently. He pushes Stiles legs where he wants them, until he can get his mouth on Stiles’ hole. He opens Stiles on his tongue and fingers, slow and deep. They’ve been doing this more often—going slower, lingering when they have the time. Stiles loves the quick dirty fucks in a corner of a club or right before a show, but he needs this. They need this. He needs to shudder under Derek sucking a hickey into the surprising spot under his ribs. He needs to give Derek this trust. He needs this surety that he can fall apart safely. He needs to feel Derek holding him through it.

When Derek presses against Stiles’ sweet spot, firm and sure like the massage, Stiles shouts. Several times. Derek has three fingers knuckle-deep, and he’s twisting them in a way that he fucking _knows_ makes Stiles breathless.

“Get _in_ me, you fucker,” Stiles says.

This is another thing they’ve been doing more often: honest, open communication.

Derek laughs, dark and rich and warm. He stretches out over Stiles’ body again, and when he finally slides home in one long push, Stiles hears him muffle the sexiest goddamn punched-out groan into Stiles’ shoulder. They start moving together, slow and deep. Their combined sweat slicks the way. Derek could get a better angle if he moved away, but he stays plastered to Stiles from mouth to ankle. He sucks marks into the sensitive skin under Stiles’ ear and the tender muscles at the base of Stiles’ neck. Stiles loves him for it.

“I love you,” he says. He’s surprised at how softly it comes out. “I fucking—Derek—”

“I know,” says Derek. His voice sounds tight in a way that makes Stiles’ belly warm. “Me too. Me too. I know.” He releases Stiles’ hands to wrap his arms around Stiles. One goes around Stiles’ chest. The other slides lower. Derek makes a firm circle with his hand for Stiles to thrust into, once, twice—Derek thumbs the slit on the third, and Stiles’ body _explodes_. He’d be afraid he’d dissolve into the air, if he couldn’t feel Derek’s weight tethering him.

When he comes back, he’s lying on his side, and Derek’s warm behind him. He’s pressing feather-light kisses to the ball of Stiles’ shoulder.

“Time s’it?” Stiles slurs.

“Two hours till sound check,” Derek says lowly. “I’ll wake you up.”

Stiles hums, sleepy and sated and _happy_ , lulled by the feel of Derek’s arms.

 

Stiles and Lydia meet River/Valley at Joe’s East Atlanta Coffee Shop the day after the show. To Stiles’ surprise, they introduce themselves as Meredith Walker and Jordan Parrish. Meredith is fine-boned and quiet, with large timid eyes—Parrish is the picture of a clean-cut Southern gentleman, and he picks up Meredith’s hand and holds it when she starts to worry a hole through the cuff of her sweater. Stiles can see why their fans are so interested in their relationship.

When Lydia asks how they got started, Meredith visibly flinches.

“We don’t like to publicize it,” Parrish says. “I like you, ma’am, and we’re very grateful for this opportunity, but we’re extremely protective of our private lives.” His clear gaze flicks to Stiles. “Now, I believe you can appreciate that, but we have to be sure.” Meredith nods.

He’s referring to Stiles and Derek. Parrish, at least, is hyperaware of how shitty labels can be to people who don’t fit into their mainstream mold. It’s fucking unusual not to talk about how they met—that’s basic PR identity shit—but there’s a lot of stuff Smokes for Harris doesn’t talk about, either. If River/Valley needs some unusual PR handling, so fucking be it. They’re still good musicians, and Stiles has a good gut feeling about them as people.

Lydia leans in a little, earnest but not in their space. “Obviously, you don’t have to tell us any more than you want to tell. You should reconsider when it comes to your manager, though. The more they know, the more they can help. They’re a little like lawyers in the way that they can’t be prepared to protect or defend you if they don’t know what you want to protect. Allison’s great at her job; so’s her dad, if you’d feel more comfortable in the hands of a veteran.”

Meredith relaxes her shoulders, holding Lydia’s gaze. Parrish nods and says, “Meredith and I met in Louisiana about five years ago.”

“I was institutionalized for schizophrenia,” Meredith cuts in, still looking at Lydia. Stiles’ mind blanks. Parrish turns to her sharply.

“Mer.”

“They want us,” she says to him. “And I trust them.” She squares her shoulders and continues. “Music therapy was key to my…” she looks to Parrish.

“Rehabilitation?” he says.

“Rehabilitation,” Meredith says. “Jordan volunteered to teach my group guitar.” She looks down, somewhere between Parrish’s knee and the edge of the table. “Eventually, my head was clear enough to hear my own music.”

“Meredith writes the lyrics, and we both write the guitar parts,” Parrish says. “To be frank, ma’am, we’ve had labels approach us before, but what we just told you is just the tip of a very private iceberg, and we felt we had to be selective about who we trusted with such sensitive information.”

“Robots and spies,” Meredith says, with a frown. She meets Lydia’s eyes again. “We’re complex, and they didn’t want us to be.” Then she blushes. “We know we’re never going to play Madison Square Gardens,” she says, smiling at Stiles, “and we don’t really want to.”

Stiles nods. “That’s totally understandable—your sound is more suited to an intimate atmosphere. And the label would be happy to accommodate any medical needs you have. Their goal is to create an environment that gives artists the tools and comfort they need to be musically productive. Hell, we nailed out an entire album as soon as Kira could get us in a studio. And I can honestly say it’s simultaneously the most discreet and the least-pressurized environment I’ve ever worked in.”

Parrish squeezes Meredith’s hand. “I would thank you for being so understanding, if it weren’t the decent human thing that anyone should do.”

Stiles can’t hold it in. “I like you. I’m gonna keep you.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and smacks his shoulder. Meredith smiles. Parrish sighs and nods wearily in a way that reminds Stiles of Derek.

 

The owner comes over after a while to say hi—apparently Meredith and Parrish are regulars. He asks if they’ll play something for the lunch crowd that’s fast approaching, to keep people’s minds off how long the line is or how they’re not getting their order with Starbucks speed. Parrish looks at Meredith, who agrees easily.

They’re different people when they perform. Meredith reminds Stiles of a little of a fairy. She sings like she knows things that only appear at the edges of other people’s thoughts. She steadies. She smiles, even around the sad words. Parrish hunkers over his guitar like a good ole boy seated by a campfire. He doesn’t look at Meredith once, but his eyes are closed, and they play like they’re sharing the same brain. Stiles tries to think of the words to describe it—two sides of the same coin, the inhale and the exhale, a prolonged and epic case of saying the same thing at the same time—but nothing captures it quite right. The melodies wouldn’t be melodies if one of them sat out. Meredith’s voice wouldn’t have weight without Parrish’s quiet baritone, and Parrish wouldn’t sound all that remarkable without Meredith’s raspy soprano. They’re the best match Stiles has ever seen.

“ _I’ve got a box of oxymorons, and I swear it’s not Pandora’s, oh lover don’t believe the things you read_ ,” Meredith sings, and Parrish opens his eyes for the first time in fifteen minutes and smiles at her. She smiles back. Lydia sighs.

“Miss Martin, do I detect wistfulness?”

“Can it, Stilinski. I’m having a moment.”

Stiles puts an arm around her shoulders, draws her close, and kisses her hair. “You did good.”

She snorts. “Don’t I always.” It isn’t a question.

Meredith and Parrish play until two, slipping a few Alison Krauss and Bon Iver covers in between original songs. The owner thanks them with giant bottles of water and a twenty-five-dollar gift card.

Stiles points at it. “Does that happen often?”

“More often than not,” Parrish says. “But it keeps us fed. If money were a serious concern, we wouldn’t have held out for so long on a label.”

“I should be clear that Vulpine Lupine isn’t the most lucrative of labels,” Lydia says, slowly and cautiously. “And we can’t make any guarantees as to the popularity or sales of your work.”

Meredith smiled, and Parrish chuckled. “Just get us to San Fran, ma’am,” says Parrish, “and we’ll do the rest.”

 

And that’s how they sign River/Valley.


End file.
